Flatmates on Parade
by Eideann
Summary: When Mycroft "abducts" John, it's a smooth, practised operation. Has he done this before? This is an imagining of how that might have happened. Written between Series 1 & 2 and during the fad for "5 times x happened and 1 time y happened instead."
1. Chapter 1

2010/04/24

* * *

John came to consciousness, his head aching abominably, dimly aware of the Holmes brothers having a heated dispute above him. "I must check, Mycroft. If I don't look now, they'll have time to remove all signs and we'll have to start again."

"Your flatmate is unconscious on the floor, Sherlock," Mycroft pointed out. "How can you justify leaving him –"

"It's not as if he'll be alone, Mycroft," Sherlock retorted. "Or did you plan to abandon him?"

"What are you going on about?" John said, pushing up on his elbows.

Sherlock was instantly on the floor beside him. "Stay where you are, John. The police will be here soon."

"The police? What . . ." John remembered suddenly that they'd been looking into the gang's hideout. How had Mycroft come to be here? "Go, Sherlock, make sure we get the evidence."

Sherlock nodded sharply. "Mycroft, stay with him, keep him awake. He's clearly concussed." With that, Sherlock took off. Mycroft squatted down beside John and looked pensive.

After several moments of silence, John blinked at him. "I think, perhaps, you've misunderstood how to keep someone awake." Mycroft glanced down at him and raised his eyebrows. "It rather involves talking, you see."

"What shall we talk about?" Mycroft asked, and John thought it was highly unfair to put the onus of coming up with subject matter on the man with a concussion.

"Sherlock's had other flatmates, hasn't he?"

"He has," Mycroft said. "Why do you ask?"

"I just wondered if you ever grabbed any of them the way you grabbed me."

"Of course," Mycroft said. "As I told you then, I worry about my brother constantly."

"You didn't tell me he was your brother then."

"No, I didn't."

"It was a test," John posited. Mycroft shrugged. "Have you ever given anyone else the same test?"

"Of course I have," Mycroft said. "I couldn't risk Sherlock moving in with someone who'd prove a danger to him."

"He's of age," John pointed out. "Capable of making his own decisions."

Mycroft was silent for a moment, and John wondered what he was thinking. His head ached, and he closed his eyes briefly to avoid the light. "Do you think my brother is a sociopath?" Mycroft asked abruptly.

John opened his eyes. "No. Why, do you?"

"Not hardly," Mycroft said. "He feels very deeply, and he's made errors before, trusting the wrong person, and it's put him in terrible situations. I wish to avoid that ever happening again."

"Seems reasonable." Mycroft nodded and fell silent again. John's eyes drifted shut.

"Don't go to sleep, Dr. Watson," Mycroft said.

John forced his eyes open again. "Fine, tell me about them."

"About whom?"

"The flatmates that didn't work. I need you to talk to me."

Mycroft pursed his lips, looking irritable. "Are you quite serious?"

"I am. Is that a problem?"

Mycroft gazed at him for a long moment, then sighed. "The first one I abducted was a man called Alan Reid," he said. "He wasn't a particularly pleasant fellow. I'm not sure where Sherlock picked him up."

* * *

2009/08/19

* * *

Alan doubted his flatmate even noticed when he left 221b Baker Street, too busy staring at the ceiling and thinking inscrutable thoughts. That worked for him. He wasn't after lifelong friendship, just a place to live. This Sherlock bloke was an odd duck, but if he kept his mouth off Alan from here on in, he'd be good with him. Having his life described in fifty words or less kind of pissed him off, but this was purely a monetary arrangement. He didn't have to like his flatmate, he just had to live with him. And since the twit didn't seem to notice or care about insults, that made things easy.

His friends were expecting him at half past ten, so he hailed a cab. After climbing in and giving his instructions to the cabbie, he pulled out his phone and started flipping through his texts and checking the dismal information regarding his stock portfolio. It wasn't until he realized that too much time had passed that he looked up and discovered that he was in an entirely unfamiliar part of the city. "Where are we?" he demanded, sitting forward. "This isn't Lewisham. What's going on here?" The cabbie didn't respond, and when he tried, the little window between the front and the back wouldn't open. He tried the door, but it wouldn't open, either. "Where are you taking me?"

"Just a bit further, sir," the cabbie said, his raised voice muffled and hard to hear between the noise of the engine and through the plexiglass. "There's a gentleman as wants to speak with you."

"What gentleman?" Alan asked, leaning up close to the partition. He couldn't think of anything he'd ever done that would lead to something like this. There had to be some mistake. "Why? Are you sure you've got the right guy?"

"Alan Reid?" the cabbie asked. When Alan just stared at his reflection in the rearview mirror with wide eyes, the cabbie nodded. Alan could only see his eyes in the mirror, and the man never turned around. "Very good, then, sir. Relax, and we'll be there shortly."

Alan sat back uneasily, scanning his mind for anything he might have done or witnessed that could lead his being abducted, but there was nothing at all. After several more minutes, the cabbie pulled into a multi-story car park, abandoned at this hour. They headed up to the third level, and then the cabbie parked suddenly. There was a click in the car door, and Alan tried it hesitantly. It popped open and Alan got out, staring around him uncertainly. Lights came on, bright, blinding lights, silhouetting a large figure, a tall, fat man, leaning on an oddly shaped cane.

"Mr. Alan Nathaniel Reid." The voice was light in tone, very posh, and it exhibited a calm poise that Alan found somewhat intimidating.

"What do you want?" Alan asked, keeping his tone as calm as possible.

"What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?" the man asked, his tone noncommittal and nearly disinterested.

"Connection? He's my flatmate." Alan's eyes narrowed as he considered possible reasons why this slightly scary guy would be interested in Sherlock. "Why, what's he done?"

"What makes you think he's done anything?" Faint surprise coloured the posh voice, and Alan wondered what this man's connection was to Sherlock.

Alan shrugged. "What do you want from me? I'm not his friend or anything, the arrogant git is just my flatmate."

"I see," the man said dryly. Now that Alan's eyes had adjusted, he realized that the big man was leaning on an umbrella, not a cane. "I have a proposition for you."

"What sort of proposition?"

"I will pay you a meaningful amount of money to pass on information to me regarding your flatmate's activities."

Alan stared at the man, gaping. It was an outrageous suggestion, asking him to spy on his flatmate. He opened his mouth, prepared to refuse, but what came out startled him. "Define meaningful."

The man raised his eyebrows. "Say, two hundred pounds a month."

Alan considered this. "What sort of information?"

"Nothing indiscreet, I just want to be informed about his day to day activities."

"I don't spend a great deal of time with him. I don't know where he goes when he's out, for instance."

"Oh, I can find that out," the man replied with quiet assurance. "I need someone who can tell me what he does at home."

Alan thought the idea over for a moment. It wasn't as though Sherlock was or ever would be any kind of a mate. The man thought far too highly of his own intellect, and he made every interaction into an intellectual puzzle. If he ever did try to get off with a girl, he'd probably wind up explaining his sexual attraction to her – and hers to him – in such unflattering terms that she'd go off in a huff. A good thing, no doubt. Weirdos like him didn't need to breed. Having thus disposed of any need to be loyal to a man who would never feel the same towards him, he nodded, but there were other issues to be considered. "How would you go about paying me?" he asked. "It doesn't strike me as the sort of thing one writes out cheques for."

"How very pragmatic of you," the man said sardonically, tilting his head. "Hmmm . . . you seem to have rather missed the point of this interview."

Alan's brows knit, and he had no idea what that meant. "I don't understand."

The fat man's lips stretched in a small smile. "When the cab takes you back to Baker Street, you will pack up and move out."

"What are you talking about?" Alan exclaimed, startled beyond comprehension. "Why would I move? It's –"

"You will move out of 221b Baker Street, in fact, you will move out of London." Alan started to protest, but the fat man overrode him. "If you don't, I will bring certain trades you have engaged in to the attention of the proper authorities." He held out a file and Alan took it. Flipping it open, he found exactly the evidence he didn't want to see. He didn't think what he'd done was so terrible, but he'd be in deep trouble if anyone found out. The man clearly knew that, because he smiled more broadly. "Do we have an agreement?"

Alan looked up at the man, flabbergasted by how entirely upside-down the interview had turned. "I can't afford to move."

The man gazed at him silently for a moment. "You cannot afford not to," he said quietly, nodding towards the file. "Be out by noon tomorrow. Good night, Mr. Reid." With that he turned and walked away, leaving Alan to stare after him in stunned amazement.

Mycroft sighed. Sometimes he thought his brother selected his flatmates with the use of a dartboard. Ever since that debacle during Sherlock's last year in uni, Mycroft had made it his business to ensure that anyone who moved in with his brother was up to a decent standard of ethical behaviour, yet not so high up on the scale that he would feel competent to disapprove of Sherlock. It was a difficult balance to strike.

For example, Mycroft could have overlooked Mr. Reid's foray into insider trading if he had simply responded appropriately to the challenge placed before him. It was unfortunate that he had failed. Sherlock clearly did not like living alone, but he had made it abundantly clear that any attempt on his older brother's part to provide him with suitable companionship would be met with outright hostility and a direct attempt to drive the interloper out. Mycroft had lost two otherwise competent agents that way. Not only had they left Sherlock's flat, they had left Mycroft's employ. Mycroft had no clear idea of what Sherlock had said to either man. Sherlock wouldn't say, neither of his agents had been willing to be explicit, and every time he tried to insert surveillance devices into Sherlock's dwelling, they mysteriously failed within the first twenty-four hours. Mysterious to his technical staff, not to Mycroft.

He returned to his usual work of managing nations. Somehow that seemed easier than managing his younger brother's life.

* * *

2010/04/24

* * *

"So what would you have done if I'd said yes?" John asked. "What could you have blackmailed me with?"

"I don't honestly know," Mycroft replied, and John blinked at him. "I didn't, then, have anything to blackmail you with, nor any other hold on you." He shrugged. "I didn't blackmail all of them."

"No?" John asked, wondering what else he might have tried. He snorted. "How did Sherlock feel about your interference?"

"Sometimes he quite appreciated it," Mycroft said defensively. "In fact, the next time I got involved, he actually thanked me."

"Really?" John said, having trouble imagining that. "He actually said those words?"

"Those words exactly," Mycroft said. "The fellow was a complete idiot, who somehow became convinced that he and Sherlock were, in his words, 'closer than brothers' after less than a week."

"It does happen," John pointed out, thinking of soldiers he'd known.

"I know," Mycroft said, giving John a look he couldn't quite read. "But not with Roger Hemrick."


	2. Chapter 2

_Author's note: Happy birthday to me, so you're getting an early update!_

* * *

2009/09/12

* * *

"Dull," Sherlock pronounced. Roger looked up in surprise from the pot pie he was making as his flatmate continued. "Really, Lestrade, if you can't bring me something interesting, you might as well not bother coming." From where he was in the kitchen, Roger saw the slight wilt of the police inspector's shoulders.

"Come on, Sherlock, you aren't giving it a chance."

"Not interested," Sherlock said with decision, and he walked swiftly through the kitchen and into his own room. Roger turned right around and watched him go in dismay.

Lestrade, the police inspector, looked disappointed but not surprised. Shrugging, he started to leave.

"Wait," Roger blurted, and Lestrade paused, giving him a curious look. Roger hurried over to him in the sitting room, wiping his hands on a tea towel. "I'll see what I can do to convince him, and we'll join you."

"You'll try to convince him?" Lestrade repeated, sounding dubious.

Roger gave a modest shrug. "Sherlock and I have become very close," he said. "I'll talk to him, and we should be along shortly."

"Right," Lestrade said, drawing out the vowel to emphasize his incredulity. He gave Roger a curt nod. "Good night, then." As he went, Roger could see that the man didn't believe him. What could one expect, though, from a fellow of such limited imagination and scope? Roger had followed Sherlock to the last crime scene he'd visited and witnessed their interactions from a spot on the sidelines. Lestrade genuinely needed Sherlock's insights. Roger truly couldn't imagine how the inspector could function effectively with as little perspicacity as he demonstrated.

He went through to the door of Sherlock's room. After knocking and calling for a few moments, he opened the door and peered in. His jaw dropped. How did he do that? He shut the door to the empty room and hurried back to the sitting room to grab his jacket. Sherlock occasionally tested him by disappearing – as though he wanted Roger to prove his ability to keep up with him. Roger would be willing to bet that Sherlock had gone to the case and was expecting him to realize that and join him. That would certainly increase his credit with Lestrade. The police inspector would have to recognize the bond between Roger and Sherlock then. He went down the stairs, locked the outer door and trotted along to catch up.

He went several blocks before a cab pulled over to let someone out. Roger grabbed the door before the former passenger could close it. Swinging in, he gave the address to the cabbie and sat back. Sherlock would be so pleased to see him show up, to realize that he'd figured it out on his own.

* * *

Lestrade looked up as Sherlock strode into the crime scene, mildly startled to see the consulting detective. "What, did your mate convince you?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "What?"

"That flatmate of yours said he'd try to get you to come along here," Lestrade said. "And here you are."

Sherlock shook his head, and Lestrade thought he looked exasperated. "My dismissal of the case was merely an attempt to avoid his following me as he did last week." Lestrade knit his brows, trying to remember seeing the fellow the previous week, but he couldn't recall it. Sherlock grimaced irritably, dismissing the flatmate with a wave of his hand. "He's a nutter. Show me the body."

Lestrade boggled only slightly at the idea of Sherlock calling someone else a nutter, then guided him in.

* * *

Mycroft watched the cab pull in. Arranging for cabs to pick these fellows up could prove a bit inconvenient. He'd been concerned that Mr. Hemrick wouldn't call for one, and it wasn't the done thing for a cab to pull up and offer a lift to someone. It would arouse suspicion in the dimmest of men. If Sherlock was going to keep experimenting like this, Mycroft would have to come up with a different method of bringing the fellows in.

The door opened and Roger Hemrick stepped out, looking around suspiciously. This fellow had seemed borderline normal, but after he'd been seen following Sherlock to a crime scene and mooning about, watching him, Mycroft grew . . . concerned. It wasn't healthy behavior.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Hemrick," Mycroft said.

Glancing around at the warehouse Mycroft had set up this meeting in, Hemrick walked across towards him, as though he wanted to take charge of the situation. "Who are you?" he demanded a shade aggressively.

"What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?" Mycroft asked, ignoring the other man's question.

Hemrick straightened slightly, put on his guard. "He's my friend and we share a flat," he replied

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at the word 'friend' but didn't address the unlikelihood. To his certain knowledge, Sherlock had never – beyond boyhood – had a friend. "So you spend time with him?" Mycroft ask, allowing a hint of skepticism to colour his voice.

"Of course," Hemrick retorted. "Why do you want to know? Who are you?"

"An interested party," Mycroft said.

"What do you want from me?" Hemrick asked, eyes narrowing. "What do you want from Sherlock?"

That list was extensive, but it was not for the ears of Roger Hemrick. Mycroft shrugged. "I worry about him," he said. "Constantly."

"What business is it of yours?" Hemrick demanded.

Mycroft considered the bullish little man in front of him. Interesting that all his thoughts were of Sherlock and not for his own situation, abducted into a strange place by an unknown man. Self-preservation did not appear to be Roger Hemrick's strongest trait. "Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?"

"Yeah," Hemrick said belligerently. "Why not?"

"Why not indeed," Mycroft said. The other man's hostility was growing tiresome. How could Sherlock put up with him and his presumptions? "If you remain at 221b Baker Street, I'd be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis."

"To hell with that," Hemrick growled. "Who the bloody hell are you?"

"You don't even know what I want in return for the money," Mycroft said calmly. "I assure you, it's unexceptionable."

Hemrick's jaw set angrily. "All right, what do you want?"

"Information. Nothing indiscreet, just tell me what he's up to."

Hemrick drew himself up straight and tall. "Absolutely not."

"You seem very certain about it. I haven't even mentioned a figure."

"It doesn't matter. There are things a man doesn't do to his friends. I don't know who you are, but I would never dream of –"

"You've known him for less than a week," Mycroft pointed out. "You're extraordinarily loyal for such a short space of time."

The fire that entered Hemrick's eyes was almost alarming. "Sometimes two people click. Sherlock and I are closer than brothers."

"Are you closer to him than he is to his own brother?" Mycroft asked, raising an eyebrow, and he watched in amusement as Hemrick tried to decide whether to admit that he hadn't any idea that Sherlock had a brother. He regarded the man irritably. He had nothing on him. No misdeeds, no family who'd committed misdeeds, no job Mycroft could conveniently relocate. He was utterly untouchable. Mycroft was going to have to get creative. "Actually, this was in the nature of a test," he said with perfect truth. Hemrick's brows drew together. "A test you have passed." Predictably, this made Hemrick look quite pleased with himself. "Now, I understand that you feel very close to Sherlock, but would you be willing to sacrifice your friendship in service to your country?"

Hemrick's eyes widened. "I don't understand."

"We've been watching you very closely for some time, Mr. Hemrick," Mycroft said. "And a little problem has developed overseas that I think you're just the man to tackle."

"I'm listening."

* * *

Late the next morning, Mycroft's secretary came into his office. "I've a call for you, sir, from a man claiming to be your brother."

That sounded alarming. "Put it through." He picked it up. "What is it, Sherlock?"

"Why are you not responding to my text messages?" his brother demanded.

"My phone has been off all day," Mycroft replied. "I have been in and out of meetings. In fact, I have another in about ten minutes, so can you be brief?"

"Can you explain this note I've received from my newly former flatmate?" Sherlock asked.

"I doubt it," Mycroft said, blinking. Hemrick had been told not to tell anyone anything. "Have you lost another one so soon?"

"Yes," Sherlock said, and there was a dry tone in his voice. "He tells me that he can't explain why he's leaving, but that he hopes I'll have the strength to go on without him."

"Will you?" Mycroft asked, feigning curiosity.

Sherlock was silent for a moment, then he spoke in a flat, colourless voice that failed to conceal the sincerity of his words. "If I believed in God, I would be thanking him for sending him away." After a pause, he added, "Thank you, Mycroft." There was a click, and then the dial tone. Mycroft hung up, a bit startled by the reaction.

His secretary came in again, clearly on business of some urgency, and Mycroft dismissed his brother from his mind for the time being.

* * *

2010/04/24

* * *

John laughed, then winced as the movement hurt his head. "So he did thank you. Good God, that man sounds appalling."

"And you don't know the half of it."

"What did you do with him?"

"I sent him to Prague to keep close watch over some entirely boring wine merchants. He's been encouraged to believe that they smuggle things other than wine in their trucks, but that his direct intervention would be disastrous to other plans. I receive weekly reports from him written in a code of his own devising."

"Surely that can't go on forever," John said. "How are you paying him?"

Mycroft shrugged. "How's your head?"

"Bloody awful," John replied. "I don't want to think about it."

"I suppose that means you'd like me to tell you about another one of Sherlock's flatmates."

"Wouldn't hurt," John said. "So, you blackmailed one, sent one on a fake secret mission. What else?"

Mycroft shrugged. "I did nothing at all to the next fellow."

"Apart from abducting him?" John asked, raising an eyebrow.

Mycroft shrugged. "Well, yes, apart from that."


	3. Chapter 3

2009/10/23

* * *

Toby liked to walk of an evening, and after the row about the fridge, getting out of the flat seemed wisest. He really didn't need to have a shouting fight with his new flatmate in the first week of their co-residency. That kitchen, though . . . . Sherlock's experiments were enough to drive a sober man to drink, but Toby was enough of a historian to know that most scientists in previous centuries worked out of their own homes. Not everyone could afford to rent or own lab space. He and Sherlock were just going to have to settle down some night soon and make rules regarding which spaces needed to be left alone so that Toby had somewhere he could prepare sandwiches without fearing that some chemical or random body part might fall into his food.

He stopped to listen to a street musician for a moment, then went on. Maybe he should run by Megan's. She might be interested in going out for a drink. Before he'd quite made up his mind, he found himself face to face with a woman he'd never seen before and stopped short so as not to bump into her. He started to back up and go around, but when she spoke to him, he realized that they hadn't met by happenstance. "Mr. Tobias Ackles?" she said, and Toby looked at her, startled. "A gentleman wishes to speak with you, if you don't mind."

"Who?" Toby asked, looking more closely at the woman. She was dressed soberly in a dark suit, and her expression was calm, almost impersonal.

"I'm not authorized to provide that information," the woman said. She pulled an ID folder out of her pocket and showed him. It appeared to be some form of military identification. "Please, sir, if you'll get into the car, I can take you to him."

Sighing, Toby got in, hoping that whatever this was could be cleared up quickly. A girl was already in the back seat, but she didn't even look up from her mobile as he climbed in. He looked for a seat belt as the door was closed for him, but he didn't see one. "Hello," he said as the driver pulled the car smoothly away from the kerb.

The girl glanced up. "Hullo," she replied before returning her attention to her phone – or whatever it was. She was amazing to look at, perfect skin, lovely hair, but he'd never before seen anyone text with such intensity.

"What's your name?" he asked.

"Hmmm," she said without looking up. "Marley."

Odd sort of pause, Toby thought, but he figured she must be very focused. "So, can you tell me what's going on?" he asked.

"A gentleman wishes to speak to you."

"But do you know why?"

"Yes." Toby waited, but she didn't amplify. There seemed to be little point in asking her to. He pulled out his own phone and sent a text to Megan asking her if she'd like to go out tomorrow night. After a few moments, she responded with a movie suggestion. He sat back and looked out the window, wondering what on earth this could be about.

The car pulled into a schoolyard and parked right next to the doorway into what looked like a gymnasium. The woman from the front got out and opened the door.

Mycroft tucked his phone away and awaited Mr. Ackles. Apparently his assistant was Marley today. Good to know. She had given good reports of Mr. Ackles' conduct thus far, and he trusted her judgment. Ackles entered uneasily, glancing around in the shadows till he spotted Mycroft's silhouette. Light fell on him, allowing Mycroft a clear view of tidy light brown hair. The young man walked towards him, seeming very tense and anxious. "Excuse me, can you please tell me why I'm here?"

"What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?"

Ackles looked at him for a moment in apparent surprise, then he shook his head. "Why do you want to know?"

"I worry about him," Mycroft said.

"You worry –" Ackles broke off, staring at him, brows knit together. "Look, if this is to do with the government, why don't you just –"

"Who said this is to do with the government?" Mycroft asked. One of his people was going to have some questions to answer later.

Ackles' eyes widened. "Who are you, then?" he asked.

Mycroft shrugged, smiling slightly. They were back on script. "An interested party," he said. "What is your connection with Sherlock Holmes?"

It was fascinating to watch the wheels turning in the other man's mind. He was clearly brighter than either Reid or Hemrick. He actually looked alarmed. "Sherlock and I met a little over a week ago, and I moved into his flat just about a week ago. He thinks I'm boring but tolerable, his words."

Mycroft could hear his brother saying it. "I see. Do you plan to remain as Sherlock's flatmate?"

The young man's Adam's apple bobbed as he gulped. "Unless we can't work out an arrangement regarding where his experiments end and my food begins, sure."

Mycroft nodded. Practical, rational, short on money. "While you're living at 221b Baker Street, I'd be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis."

"Money? For what?" Ackles was glancing around at the empty gymnasium, his eyes very wide, skin paling to reveal a dusting of light freckles that were normally camouflaged by his natural coloring. Mycroft could see that he was growing more dismayed the longer the conversation went on.

"Information," Mycroft said.

"Information?" Ackles repeated before Mycroft could elaborate. "On Sherlock?" Despite his clear effort to remain composed, there was a slight squeak in his voice on Mycroft's brother's name. "What sort of information?"

"Just keep me informed as to what he's up to," Mycroft said softly. "We have something of a difficult relationship, so I would just as soon he remained unaware of my interest."

"I see." Ackles moistened his lips. Mycroft saw the decision in his eyes and was faintly disappointed. "All right, I will."

"Very well," Mycroft said grimly. He had nothing on Tobias Ackles. No misdeeds, not even evidence of cheating in primary school, but if he was reading Ackles correctly, he wouldn't need it. "I will make the required arrangements and will contact you later."

"Good, then, fine," Ackles said with rather more alarm in his tone than Mycroft suspected the man would prefer to know he'd let on. "You know, I should be getting back. I've got an early start tomorrow. Is there anything else?"

"Not a thing," Mycroft said. "Good night, Mr. Ackles."

Ackles started to back away. "The car, is it –"

"It will take you back home," Mycroft said with a nod. Ackles left with dignified haste and Mycroft knew he would soon receive a phone call from his brother.

* * *

Sherlock hit send on the text confirming the solution to his latest case and sat back, but before he could even give thought to what he would do next, the downstairs door opened and he heard Toby's feet on the stairs. His most recent flatmate came in and stopped, staring at Sherlock.

"Is something the matter?" Sherlock asked, knowing it was the proper question despite the fact that there was quite clearly something the matter.

"I'm sorry, mate, but I'm going to have to move," Toby said.

Sherlock sat up straight. "Move, why?"

Toby pursed his lips, then shook his head. "You've got an enemy, Sherlock, I don't know if you know. He just offered me money to spy on you. I took the offer, but only to get out of there. I'm moving out, and if he asks, I'm going to say it's because you wouldn't compromise on the kitchen situation."

"How much money?" Sherlock asked. Mycroft was truly beginning to irritate him.

"You know, I didn't ask. I didn't think of it. I just wanted to get him to let me go. I think I'll see if Megan will put me up for a couple of nights. I don't mind telling you, that was one scary bastard. Tall, very stout, dark hair, beaky nose, and he had an umbrella that he was using like a cane. Very odd chap. Look out for him."

"Oh, I do," Sherlock said. "I do."

"Oh, you know him?"

"We've met."

"Well, I'm going to go pack. Sorry, mate, I hope you'll find someone else, but you'd better be aware, he'll probably offer the same deal to them."

"Thank you, Toby," Sherlock said and watched his new former flatmate go through the kitchen and up the stairs. He was going to have to have words with his brother. He'd actually found this fellow tolerable.

* * *

2010/04/24

* * *

"Was Sherlock very annoyed?"

"Extremely," Mycroft said with evident discomfort at the memory. "But he truly wouldn't have done. You know how involved Sherlock's cases can become."

"Not at all," John said wryly. "How did you come to be here, anyway?"

"You don't remember?"

"I remember going out to find out where the gang was stashing their loot, but nothing coherent past leaving the flat."

"That's not good, is it?"

"It's not at all uncommon to forget the events surrounding a head trauma. In a few days, I might not even remember this conversation."

"How likely is that?" Mycroft asked, and John could see that he'd be just as happy if he forgot it all.

John shrugged. "I don't know whether to be happy or sad that Toby didn't work out." Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "Well, if he had, Sherlock wouldn't have been looking for a flatmate."

"By then, I suspect he would have been," Mycroft said. "Something would have happened that would either have convinced poor Mr. Ackles that he couldn't stay, or he would have been badly injured or killed."

"That's a cheery way of looking at it."

"Trust me. I know my brother. If Mr. Ackles had left once he knew how dangerous staying could be, he'd have thought himself a coward, and Sherlock would not have easily recovered from the man's death or maiming. He likes to pretend he doesn't care, but he would have grown used to Mr. Ackles, and until you came along, that was the closest Sherlock ever came to getting attached."

"So, you're saying you got rid of him because you were certain that he would either leave because he was afraid and ruin his own opinion of himself, or get himself killed and upset Sherlock."

"I didn't get rid of him," Mycroft said. "I simply gave him a reason to think he should go."

"Don't you think he found that a bit cowardly? Even if there wasn't a crisis, he thought there was one."

"He did everything a reasonable, decent Englishman could do in the circumstance. He warned his acquaintance of the danger and removed himself from the equation."

"I told Sherlock about your offer, you know," John said.

"Did you?"

"He was quite put out with me."

Mycroft gave him a startled look. "Whyever so?"

"He told me I should have taken the deal, and we could have split the fee."

Letting out a huff of a laugh, Mycroft shook his head. "I've no idea what I would have done in that circumstance."

"Nor have I," John replied. "How do my eyes look? Are the pupils the same size?"

"Not really," Mycroft said after gazing at him for a moment.

"Damn. Tell me another, because I really do feel abominably sleepy, and it wouldn't do for me to go to sleep before I've been examined."

"You won't like the next fellow," Mycroft said. "Not that I ever got to speak with him, but he confessed the whole of his intentions later to his psychiatrists."

"Intentions?" John repeated. "Psychiatrists?"

"He's in prison now, but he spent some time in Bethlem Royal."


	4. Chapter 4

_Please note: This was written prior to Series 2. I assumed what many of us assumed was the end of the cliffhanger that ended Series 1. 'Nuff said. Oh, darn, not 'nuff. We also hadn't seen their parents and knew nothing of them._

* * *

2009/11/15

* * *

Brock figured he had it made. A flatmate who was as lonely a blighter as he'd ever seen, but with a bankroll as big as they came. Given his lack of friends, it shouldn't be hard to wrap the poor bugger around his little finger. A little sex, a little play on the guilt and confusion it was so easy to excite in those pale eyes, and he could bleed the fellow dry. He'd get a kick out of twisting the kid's head around. It would be pathetically easy. It hadn't taken any effort at all to persuade him to agree to a flatshare.

Sherlock walked into the room, tying his scarf round his neck. "I'm going out," he said. He'd gotten a phone call a bit ago, one that had lit his eyes right up.

"Oh, are you?" Brock said. "I thought we'd have a night in, but you go if you want to," he added with just the slightest hint of self-abnegation. The other man's brows drew in, and Brock saw the uncertainty. "Don't mind me."

To Brock's surprise, the uncertainty died away, and Sherlock nodded. "Very well, if you say so," he replied. "Don't wait up, I'll probably be out all night." With that he left, clattering down the steps.

That hadn't gone quite as planned, but Brock had no doubts at all that he would manage to worm his way into Sherlock's head. Especially once they started having sex. He knew he could swing that. Sherlock had all the earmarks of a near-virgin. He'd be flattered when Brock started giving him attention. He might even manage to consummate it when Sherlock got back from whatever he was doing now, but to take advantage of that, he needed some supplies. Pulling on his coat, he let himself out. Maybe he should contrive some kind of misadventure. Sherlock would like to help him with something like that. Let him feel like a knight in shining armour.

He hailed a cab outside 221b and got in. "Slinky's, please," he said.

"Where is that?"

"Walker's Court," Brock said impatiently.

"Of course, sir."

Brock made a mental list. Lubricant, anal beads, a butt plug for helping him get used to the stretching. He smiled at the thought. Such tools could not be reused with a new lover, so they had to be bought again and again. Once he'd gotten a bit of Sherlock's ready, he could go to Coco de Mer and get the good stuff, but he was a bit short on cash, so he'd have to go the economy route for now.

The cab dropped him off and he went in to make his purchases. He very much enjoyed shopping with Sherlock in mind. The man was a delight to the eyes, and Brock had no doubt at all that he would be fun to train in the arts of sexual pleasure. Though tempted by several sets of cuffs, he decided to wait on that for future occasions, and for when he could buy the good stuff. Sherlock would appreciate nothing less than the finest leather and silver tools, he suspected.

Leaving, he looked in vain for a cab. Setting out to walk back, he contemplated what sort of trouble he should invent for himself, what would best arouse Sherlock's protective instincts.

Before he could get very far in his planning, a large black car pulled up beside him. He glanced over at it and incorporated it in his planning. An attempted abduction could do nicely. He might have to provide himself with a few artistic bruises, but that wouldn't be too difficult.

"Mr. Brock Sandhurst?" The voice was diffident and male.

Brock turned around and gazed in surprise at the total stranger behind him. "Who wants to know?"

"A gentleman wishes to speak with you," the man said.

Brock shook his head. "Not interested," he replied, and he turned to go. He found another man in front of him. He stopped short, his heart jumping into his throat. "What is –" Between them, the two blokes shoved him into the car with a minimum of effort. The sheer ease of it and the fact that no one seemed even to notice it was happening made Brock's heart speed up. The door closed and he tried to re-open it. The door stayed closed, but the two blokes got back in and they pulled away from the kerb. He scrabbled at the door and window controls, desperate to get them open. This couldn't happen, not to him!

* * *

Mycroft had difficulty imagining just why Sherlock would have allowed a piece of garbage like Brock Sandhurst to move into his flat. His history was something appalling. He'd wrecked the lives of several young men, encouraging them to gamble and spend money as though it were water, running up debts to the tune of hundreds of thousands of pounds. He simply could not believe that his brother had not seen through Sandhurst.

The car pulled in and came to a stop. None of the doors opened, but the vehicle began to shake strangely. Mycroft relaxed his pose and took a step forward, but then one of the rear doors opened. Anthea got out, and her pretty face was set in a mask of disgust even as she continued to monitor newsfeeds, Twitter posts and Facebook messages regarding important governmental issues. She shut the door behind her and walked towards him. "Where is Sandhurst?" Mycroft asked.

Anthea looked up and glanced back at the car. "Weeping and begging for his mum."

Mycroft's jaw dropped, and he walked round the car to pull open the rear door to peer inside. The man had been sitting hunched over, his feet up on the seat, but the moment Mycroft looked in at him, he scrambled away, actually whimpering, and huddled in the opposite footwell, staring in apparent terror at Mycroft.

"He spent most of the trip here keening," Anthea said in a pained voice. "Quite shrilly."

Shaking his head, he backed away and shut the door on the pathetic creature, who gave a sharp cry of fear at the sudden noise. Stifling a very natural revulsion, Mycroft walked over and picked up the file of data about Sandhurst. The proofs he had were undoubtedly strong enough to warn the bastard off his brother, but he didn't know that he had anything approaching enough to hand over to the police. He hadn't wanted to wait, not with the fellow actually living with Sherlock. After brief consideration, he walked swiftly back to the car and opened the door again. "Stay away from Sherlock Holmes," he ordered, and the terrified man nodded wordlessly, though he did emit a squeak of fright.

Sherlock slammed the door shut again. "Take him to Royal Bethlem and see that he's committed. Then see that this gets into the proper hands."

"Yes sir," she said, sounding resigned.

"There'll be a bonus in your pay packet, my dear. You should never have had to deal with this."

"Thank you, sir," she said. She walked past him and opened the door. She stared briefly, then shut it again. "He's soiled himself."

Mycroft grimaced. "A very large bonus," he said, and she resolutely opened the car door again and climbed in. He left Anthea to it and went home. Within seconds of opening his front door, he knew he wasn't alone. His security was good enough that he knew it couldn't be an ordinary intruder, so he detoured into the kitchen and made two cups of tea before joining his brother in his sitting room. "What brings you here, Sherlock?" he asked.

"It took you rather a long time to remove Sandhurst. I'd begun to wonder if you were losing your touch."

Mycroft stared at Sherlock for a moment. "You set me up," he said, astonished and annoyed.

"I suppose I could have proven Sandhurst's connections with illegal betting, drugs and several so-called 'accidental' deaths, but it would have been so boring."

"You young devil!" Mycroft growled. He'd taken the accidental deaths for real accidents. He'd have to look closer. And Sherlock, the consulting detective, was leaving it to him.

"And this way, you got to feel superior – for a while at least." Sherlock rose. "I can take care of myself, Mycroft. I thought you knew that."

"After the mess I went through extricating you from –"

"That was ten years ago," Sherlock retorted.

"I promised Mummy to take care of you."

"So it's not just that you're an interfering busybody. That's good to know." Sherlock was already wrapping himself in his coat and scarf. "Good night, Mycroft. Leave me alone." With that, Mycroft's little brother left.

Mycroft settled into his sofa and sighed. Whatever Sherlock thought, however much it irritated him, Mycroft was going to keep to his responsibilities.

* * *

2010/04/24

* * *

"You're doing all this because you promised your mother?" John asked.

"No, but it's a reason my brother can understand," Mycroft said. "There was an incident while Sherlock was in uni that had long term, terrible repercussions. He always points out that it was more than ten years ago when I bring it up, but I can't see that he's changed in any way that would make it unlikely to happen again."

"What happened?" John asked.

"He wouldn't thank me for sharing the details. Regardless, I mean to see that it never happens again."

"So, that was last November? Was there anyone else after that before me?" Mycroft looked deeply uncomfortable, and John scented a really good story. "Come now, Mycroft. You wouldn't want me to fall asleep. Sherlock would be very put out, and we both know how that upsets you." Mycroft gave John a dirty look, but John remembered how solicitous Mycroft had been of both his brother and his brother's flatmate after the incident at the Haverstock Public Pool. John had been startled then, but he thought he'd begun to understand some of why now. John gave him a punch on the arm that struck without much force. "Who was it, Mycroft?"

"His name was William McCaul," Mycroft said dourly.


	5. Chapter 5

2009/12/10

* * *

Willie had begun to despair of getting anywhere with Sherlock. For two weeks now he'd dropped hints, laid little lures, even left bricks lying about, but no response had been forthcoming. He'd thought when they'd first met that Sherlock was an obvious match. He did well with socially awkward guys, as a rule, and Sherlock clearly wasn't interested in women. Willie had seen five or six women throw themselves at the tall, striking fellow, and he could see why. Brilliant and beautiful, deeply reserved, at a remove from the rest of the world. In his experience, that sort yearned quietly for attention, and he was happy to provide it.

"Going out," Sherlock announced suddenly. "I'll be late coming back."

"You want company?" Willie asked, going for nonchalance.

Sherlock paused, and Willie hoped he'd go for it this time. Disappointingly, he shook his head. "No, I don't think so," he said. "Good night."

Willie watched him go, sighing. Failing Sherlock, however, he had other options. He went up to his room to change, tight leather pants in exchange for his worn blue jeans, a silk shirt for his t-shirt. Grabbing his club kit, he tucked it into his pocket and checked himself in the mirror. Hair, perfect, a bit of eyeliner, and he was ready to be seen and desired. He trotted down the stairs to the sitting room, grabbed up his coat and hurried outside.

Though he tried to get a taxi, cab after cab passed by without stopping. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he trudged along the road. Maybe he'd have better luck further along.

Just before he reached a busy corner, a black car pulled up just ahead of him. Very expensive, with tinted windows. A large fellow got out of the front passenger door and stepped across his path. He was wearing a dark suit, dark glasses, and he was built like an athlete. Willie smiled at him, and the man looked slightly disconcerted. He cleared his throat. "William McCaul?" he asked. Willie nodded, still smiling. Setting his mouth in a grim line, the man opened the rear door of the car and gestured.

Ready for just about any possible adventure, Willie smirked at him and sat down in the back seat of the car. The door closed as he looked towards the other occupant of the rear seat. It was a very pretty woman with a Blackberry in her hands. He leaned over and smiled at her. "Hallo, darling," he said. "Who am I going to see?"

The woman looked up, but she barely seemed to see him. "A man," she said.

"Oh, I know that, darling," Willie replied confidingly. "I just want to know which man."

She stared at him briefly and shrugged, returning her attention to her Blackberry.

Willie sat back with a sigh. His charms rarely had much effect on women, but he could live with that. He contemplated the possibilities of who had sent for him and what he probably wanted. This could be fun.

* * *

Mycroft stood patiently waiting for his brother's latest attempt at finding a flatmate. Heaven knew what guided Sherlock's hand in that sense. Misfit after misfit. The last fellow had even had a criminal record. Mycroft knew nothing against this fellow, which is why this meeting had taken two weeks to occur. The car pulled up and Mr. McCaul – one couldn't say anything as simple as 'he got out.' He oozed out of the car, and as he approached Mycroft, he didn't show any evidence whatsoever of fear or alarm. Very odd. He opened his mouth to greet his most recent abductee, but McCaul spoke before he could.

"What can I do for you?" he asked, sauntering across the room.

"I beg your pardon?" Mycroft said, startled by the man's response.

"You didn't send that car to bring me here for no reason," McCaul said, stopping far too close to Mycroft and posing provocatively. Mycroft had been aware of the man's homosexuality and promiscuity both, but he hadn't thought either relevant.

"Mr. McCaul –" Mycroft started, but the other man forestalled him.

"Please, call me Willie," he said with a coy look. "I can see that you're a man of importance and power, and I can assure you that I'm very discreet."

Mycroft blinked at him. He rarely found himself at a loss for words, but this had come as a complete shock. Did he truly imagine that Mycroft had brought him here for . . . he took refuge in his script. "What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?"

McCaul stared at him, then shrugged. "I have no real connection to him. We're flatmates." His head tilted, his eyes grew calculating. "Why do you want to know? Who is he to you?"

"Are you planning on continuing to live at 221b Baker Street?"

"Until a better situation offers itself," McCaul said, closing the small distance between them and fingering Mycroft's lapels while giving him a strangely insinuating smile. His hand dropped to his side. "Sooner or later, I should be able to convince him to play with me, but I don't always like to have to work that hard."

"Play?" Mycroft repeated, and when McCaul failed to elucidate, he said, "Do you mean 'have sexual intercourse'?"

"Naturally," McCaul said as if it were the most foolish question in the world, and his eyes seemed to be making promises that Mycroft had no intention of taking him up on.

"That will never happen," Mycroft said, meaning that neither brother would play with the boy.

"Why do you say that?" McCaul asked, giving him a steamy look from beneath his lashes. Something in his tone put Mycroft's back up. "Is he your boyfriend or something? Because if he was _my_ boyfriend, I wouldn't leave him so much alone."

Mycroft gazed at the young man before him for several moments longer and shook his head. This one was not only sexually obsessed, he had no sense of self-preservation whatsoever. Spending too much time with Sherlock would get the boy killed, and while Mycroft wasn't certain that would be much of a loss to the world at large, he wasn't at all sure how well Sherlock would handle it if any flatmate of his died of their association. "I believe it would be best if you left 221b Baker Street immediately."

McCaul leaned even closer, tugging on Mycroft's tie. "Really, are you that impatient?"

Mycroft smoothed his tie and removed McCaul's hand from it. "In fact, I will arrange to have your things removed while Sherlock is out." He glanced up and saw that Anthea was in hearing and knew that she would take care of it.

"Where do you want me to move to?" McCaul asked, putting a hand on Mycroft's arm.

Mycroft looked with distaste at the hand on his sleeve. Really, he had no problem with anyone's sexual preference, so long as all parties involved were capable of giving consent, but McCaul wasn't merely sexually obsessed, he was vulgar and tasteless. "America," he said after brief consideration.

McCaul's hand dropped to his side. "What?"

"New York City," Mycroft added, taking a step backward and straightening his sleeve ostentatiously. "I think you should find ample scope for your . . . interests . . . there."

"I don't have a visa," McCaul protested.

"You will have, within twenty-four hours. The car will take you to an airport hotel. You will stay there until someone brings you a ticket and instructions. Good night, Mr. McCaul."

"I don't understand," McCaul said. "I –"

"That is evident," Mycroft said, cutting him off. Then he turned without another word and walked away, leaving Anthea and the drivers to deal with McCaul.

* * *

2010/04/25

* * *

"I really don't see that it's a subject for levity, John," Mycroft protested, but that just set John to giggling harder.

He finally had to stop himself because of the pain, but it made the situation no less funny. "He transferred his affections from Sherlock to you, just like that?" he asked, snapping his fingers.

"I clearly had more money and power," Mycroft said acidly.

"I notice you don't claim to be better looking," John said, stifling a smirk.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "And he transferred those same affections from me to Jean Vega just as quickly."

"Who is Jean Vega?" John asked.

"A world famous fashion photographer in New York."

"He became a model?" John exclaimed.

"No, he became a photographer's lover," Mycroft replied. "I imagine he will soon move in with him. If he doesn't, he will be encouraged, at any event, to find independent support for himself. I shan't pay for his expensive habits forever."

"You're paying for them now?" John asked. Mycroft didn't speak, but his expression was sour. John laughed. "So you are keeping him, you're just not getting anything out of it."

"Oh, I'm getting something out of it," Mycroft retorted. "He's on the other side of the Atlantic, not bothering me or Sherlock."

"Oh, yes, that is a great deal, I can see that. How did Sherlock feel about losing another flatmate?"

Mycroft shrugged. "Sherlock didn't even seem to notice that he'd gone," he said. "Then a bit more than a month later, a new fellow turned up. This one had a history of health and psychiatric problems, known instability, and lived entirely on his army pension."

"That's hardly fair," John protested. "In what way am I unstable?"

"You live with Sherlock," Mycroft pointed out. "When I asked you if it was hell to live with my brother, you told me it was never boring."

"It is. Never boring, I mean."

"It does not augur well for your stability that you prefer that."

"So, you're saying that you were more alarmed by me than by some of the others?" John asked.

"It wasn't just you, John," Mycroft said. "It was Sherlock's reaction to you."


	6. Chapter 6

2010/01/30

* * *

Mycroft stood waiting, concealing no little anxiety. This latest fellow had him quite alarmed. He hadn't been around for any length of time, but he was already deeply involved in Sherlock's life. That had not happened before, and Mycroft didn't know what to make of it. Not only that, but the man's history raised red flags in a number of ways. Psychiatric issues, peculiar health problems, possibly unstable . . .

The new man got out of the car and made his way across the warehouse floor, stumping with his cane as he strode. Mycroft raised his voice. "Have a seat, John," he called, having provided a chair to accommodate the man's psychosomatic pain.

John Watson didn't abate his pace a jot. He kept walking, but he began to speak. "You know," he said. "I've got a phone." Mycroft knit his brows, wondering what the point of this very obvious statement of fact was. "I mean, very clever and all that, but . . ." Ignoring the chair, Watson walked straight up to him. "You could just phone me . . . on my phone." He gazed up at Mycroft with something like . . . was it disdain? Surely not.

"When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet," Mycroft said. "Hence this place," he added, gesturing with his umbrella. "Your leg must be hurting you. Sit down."

"I don't want to sit down," Watson said.

Mycroft was finding this man more than a little unexpected. "You don't seem very afraid," he said, and it was true. He seemed irritated, a bit resentful of the interruption in his life, but not afraid. Mycroft wondered what he'd have to do to alarm this one.

"You don't seem very frightening," Watson said flatly, and quite unflatteringly.

Mycroft laughed, certain from the man's bearing that mockery would be the best way to nettle him. "Yes . . . the bravery of the soldier," he said. Growing serious again, he continued, "Bravery's by far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think?" This didn't seem to be having the effect he'd wanted, so he carried straight into his usual query. "What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?"

Seeming extremely puzzled by the question, John blinked at him. "I . . . I don't have one. I barely know him. I met him . . . yesterday." Precisely the problem from Mycroft's standpoint. So fast – it was unheard of.

"Mmm, and since yesterday you've moved in with him, and now you're solving crimes together. Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?"

Watson still didn't rise to the bait. In a calm, almost disinterested tone, he said, "Who are you?"

"An interested party."

"Interested in Sherlock?" John asked, tilting his head. "Why? I'm guessing you're not friends."

"You've met him. How many friends do you imagine he has?" Watson's expression seemed to acknowledge the point, but then his eyes narrowed again, glaring at Mycroft as he continued to speak. "I am the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having."

"And what's that?"

"An enemy."

"An enemy?"

"In his mind, certainly." Mycroft wasn't altogether sure why he was sharing so much with this stranger, but he wanted to see how the good doctor reacted. "If you were to ask him, he'd probably say his arch-enemy. He does love to be dramatic."

Watson gave him a sardonic look. "Well, thank God you're above all that," he said with a small, scornful smile. Mycroft stared at him, startled by being derided by a man who should, by all rights, be afraid of him. Watson's phone chimed, and he pulled it out, calling up a text on it. Entirely ignoring the fact that he was in the midst of a conversation with a man who had arranged for him to be abducted, he actually stopped and read the text.

"I hope I'm not distracting you," Mycroft said, a tad miffed by the inattention.

Watson glanced up nonchalantly. "Not distracting me at all." He finished reading and tucked the phone away.

Deciding to ignore the rudeness, Mycroft carried on. "Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?"

Watson looked to the side thoughtfully. "I could be wrong . . ." he said, then he turned to look Mycroft full in the eye. "But I think that's none of your business."

"It could be," Mycroft said.

Without moving, without even changing expression significantly, John Watson almost seemed to exude menace. "It really couldn't," he drawled, his voice grown deeper and more intense.

Taken aback, Mycroft went a different direction. "If you do move into . . ." He glanced down at the notebook to give the impression he was not well aware of the address. "Two hundred and twenty-one b Baker Street, I'd be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis to ease your way."

"Why?" Watson shot back instantly.

"Because you're not a wealthy man," Mycroft said, unaccountably enjoying the back and forth with the doctor. He wondered what he'd say to such an indirect response.

Blue eyes narrowed coldly. "In exchange for what?"

"Information," Mycroft said, his tone a verbal shrug. "Nothing indiscreet. Nothing you'd feel uncomfortable with. Just tell me what he's up to."

"Why?" John asked, and Mycroft couldn't decide what the doctor thought was going on.

"I worry about him," Mycroft said. "Constantly."

"That's nice of you," Watson said, sounding dubious.

"But I would prefer for various reasons that my concern go unmentioned. We have what you might call a … difficult relationship." An understatement to say the least.

Watson's phone made the text sound again, and he pulled it out, once again relegating the man who might be planning to kill him to the background. "No," he said in clear answer to Mycroft's question; nevertheless, he seemed almost more interested in the texts he was receiving – no doubt from Sherlock – than he was in the conversation.

"But I haven't mentioned a figure," Mycroft protested gently as Watson put away his phone.

"Don't bother."

This was not the first time he'd received a point blank refusal, and Mycroft found it just as incredible as he had the first time. He didn't want them to say yes, but an immediate refusal didn't require thought, just knee jerk morality. He had to see that it was real. Narrowing his eyes, he gave Watson a sharp look. "You're very loyal very quickly," he commented, fully expecting Watson to agree. If he did, it would be slightly less disturbing than Hemrick's agreement had been, but it would be no more appealing.

"No, I'm not," Watson said frankly. "I'm just not interested."

Mycroft found himself unwillingly impressed by the soldier's genuine integrity. Better and better. And thus far, he'd seen no sign of instability. Time to address that. He opened his notebook to another page. "'Trust issues,' it says here," he said slowly.

Watson immediately grew suspicious, though it was more a matter of stance than anything else. "What's that?"

Without answering, Mycroft continued his thought ponderously. "Could it be that you've decided to trust Sherlock Holmes, of all people?"

"Who says I trust him?" Watson asked.

"You don't seem the kind to make friends easily," Mycroft remarked, and this seemed to exhaust the little doctor's patience.

"Are we done?" he demanded sharply.

"You tell me." Watson gazed up at him irritably for a moment, then turned to go. As he went, Mycroft noticed something that intrigued him, something that made the credibility of many of his reports go up in smoke. To forestall Watson's leaving, Mycroft spoke again. "I imagine people have already warned you to stay away from him. I can see from your left hand that's not going to happen."

As he had hoped, this observation brought Watson up short. He paused, still turned away, and Mycroft saw him give a little head shake, clearly aware that he was being played. Still, he turned around. "My what?" he asked.

"Show me," Mycroft said, marvelling at the man's continued calm.

After a brief hesitation, Watson raised his left hand and held it vertically, palm towards himself. A very closed and almost shuttered position. It said a great deal about his internal reaction to the situation. Mycroft crossed the space between them and reached for the hand. Watson jerked it away, seeming alarmed for the first time in this encounter. "Don't," he said warningly.

Mycroft gave him a remonstrative look. He couldn't imagine what the man was expecting. After a short pause, Watson brought his hand forward again, this time holding it flat, palm downwards. The doctor practically radiated tension as Mycroft touched his hand, looking for any sign of the tremor that had been described in the notes. If said tremor was caused by stress, now of all times, it should show up, but there was nothing. Rock steady, in fact. It said a great deal about the retired army doctor – and even more about the competence of his therapist. "Remarkable," Mycroft observed, releasing the hand.

Watson dropped it to his side again instantly. "What is?" he asked tersely.

Mycroft didn't answer directly. He turned away, contemplating his brother and this man who might just do for him. Calm when he should be alarmed, only finding himself overwhelmed by too much empty time, guided by a therapist who apparently believed that peace was the natural state of man. "Most people blunder round this city and all they see are streets and shops and cars," Mycroft said thoughtfully. "When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield." Mycroft turned back, looking into John Watson's eyes. "You've seen it already, haven't you?"

"What's wrong with my hand?" The words jerked out of the shorter man, as though he didn't know that he wanted the answer.

"You have an intermittent tremor in your left hand," Mycroft said, and he could see that Watson didn't like that he knew about that. The dismay and discomfort became more evident as Mycroft continued. "Your therapist thinks it's post-traumatic stress disorder. She thinks you're haunted by memories of your military service."

"Who the hell are you?" Watson demanded, and it was the first time the man's shell came close to cracking. "How do you know that?"

"Fire her," Mycroft said smugly. "She's got it the wrong way round. You're under stress right now, and your hand is perfectly steady. You're not haunted by the war, Dr. Watson, you miss it." He leaned a bit closer. "Welcome back," he whispered, and then he walked away. He wouldn't interfere any further just now. If this tough little man decided to stick it out with Sherlock, Mycroft would let it run its course for a time, see where it would go. He heard the man's phone chime yet again, and couldn't resist a little goad to ensure that the doctor would make the right choice. "Time to choose a side, Dr. Watson."

* * *

2010/04/25

* * *

"I hadn't noticed," John said after a long moment. "I'd assumed Ella was right."

"She no longer works with veterans," Mycroft said. "It doesn't seem to be her métier."

John shrugged. "I never went back. She called me a few times, and I think she worried that I had discontinued therapy. I'm quite certain she wouldn't have approved of my taking up with Sherlock."

Mycroft looked down at his hands and spoke diffidently. "If you wish to talk to someone, John, I could put you into contact with a counselor who knows how to help people with your particular needs."

"And who would hand you the reports right away," John replied dryly.

"Well, yes," Mycroft admitted. "But it's not as if I couldn't get them in any case. It would just be quicker."

John took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I'll think about it," he said.

"Do."

"So, what happens if you decide I've become too dangerous to be around Sherlock?" John asked curiously. He didn't precisely disapprove of Mycroft's hands-on approach to handling his brother, but it did make life a bit more complicated.

"Oh, I'd see you got the appropriate help," Mycroft said. "Sherlock would hound me if I didn't." Mycroft smiled down at John. "Once you've gained the regard of a Holmes – or even two – you don't lose it. Besides, I don't foresee that happening."

John snorted. "I got him blown up," he pointed out.

"Actually, I believe he got you blown up," Mycroft corrected.

"Depends on how you look at it," John replied.

Mycroft shook his head. "No, John, I truly can't see how any of that could be seen to be your fault."

"Well, I can," John said. If he'd just managed to avoid getting abducted – if he'd just seen that Sherlock wouldn't wait for Moriarty to make the next move while watching crap telly – he could have done so many things differently.

"Only you would blame yourself for that situation, John," Mycroft said. "Regardless, even had I wanted to, I had nothing I could do to put you out of the way that wouldn't have been severely detrimental to you and entirely false." He shrugged. "Not then, at any rate."

"Not then?" John repeated.

"Well, I have something I could use against you now, but I'd really rather not."

John blinked at him. "And what's that?"

"The manner in which you saved my brother's life," Mycroft said.

"You can't use that against me, assuming there was anything to use," John said, giving him a frank look. "Your brother knows how his life was saved. He'd be in trouble as well."

"It hardly matters. If I wanted you gone, which I don't, Sherlock might do me some damage."

Abruptly, the room was swarming with people. He was separated efficiently from Mycroft by paramedics who got him strapped down to a back board. "Where's Sherlock?" he asked the anxious-looking man above him.

"I'm sorry, sir, I don't know. Please lie still."

"I'm not going anywhere till I know that Sherlock is –"

"I'm fine, John," Sherlock said, suddenly hoving into his line of sight. "We have the evidence, all is well." Relief and the accompanying drop in adrenaline made John's vision swim. Sherlock was smiling down at him reassuringly. "You'll be –" He broke off, eyes widening. "What's happening? Why –" John stopped hearing anything at all before Sherlock finished his sentence.


	7. Chapter 7

2010/04/30

* * *

Epilogue

* * *

John waited in the restaurant for his guest to arrive. He thought it should be very interesting, by far more interesting than his visit to Belmarsh prison. He was still deciding whether or not to go to Yorkshire to meet Alex, Roger was entirely out of reach doing his covert reports on wine merchants in Prague, and Willie was in New York being jealous of runway models. That left two of Sherlock's previous flatmates within reach. Brock was foul and John preferred not to remember either his remarks or his leers.

"Excuse me," said a youngish man with light brown hair and green eyes. "You're Dr. John Watson, right?"

"I am," John said. "Are you Tobias Ackles?"

"Call me Toby," the other man said, settling down opposite to John. "I must say, I was surprised to hear from you. How is Sherlock?"

"Doing very well indeed," John said. "How are things with you?"

"Getting married next month," Toby said. "Was it true that Sherlock was involved in that explosion at that public pool? I've heard rumors, but they said it was gas mains, so I couldn't see how he could be connected."

John shrugged. "We were there, that's all," he said.

The waiter came up at that moment and they both gave their attention to their menus. Once he'd ordered, Toby seemed to be thinking hard for a several moments, and once the waiter had gone, he leaned across the table.

"I can see from your blog that you've experienced some . . . excitement, but perhaps you . . . I don't know how to put this." He paused, then rushed on. "This is going to sound like an odd question, but have you met a man with an umbrella?"

"I have," John said. "Several times, now." Toby's eyes widened, and John could see that he'd given the wrong impression. "He's Sherlock's brother, in actual fact. Mycroft Holmes."

"His . . . bloody hell." Tobias shook his head. "So what was it? Is he spying on his brother or –"

"It was a test," John said. "you and I weren't the only ones so honored."

"So, I take it I flunked," Tobias said slowly, looking a bit dismayed.

"Actually, no," John said. "You passed with flying colours. I was passed with reservations."

"What did you say?"

"I told him to bugger off, or words to that effect, but Mycroft thinks you're a deal more sensible than I am, and he's said you're by far the smartest of Sherlock's flatmates to date. I just thought you ought to know, if you were worried about it, that there's no crime syndicate that might have you targeted, and Sherlock isn't being spied on by some mafia don."

Tobias blinked at him. "He thinks I'm the smartest?" he repeated, and John was amused that this was the thought he'd seized on.

"Yeah, he thinks I'm a nutter for staying living there and going about with Sherlock on his cases. I daresay I am, but after Afghanistan, he's actually a bit restful."

Their food arrived, and both of them were distracted for several minutes while they got their plates and flatware situated. Just as John was about to dig into a really delectable looking pot pie, his phone chirped. He thought quite seriously about ignoring it, but he knew Sherlock would just keep bugging him, so he pulled out his phone. _Need you, Cleopatra's Needle, the game is on. SH_

John sighed and rose, placing his napkin neatly on the table. "Excuse me," he said.

"Patient?" Toby asked, looking concerned.

"No, our flatmate has a new case, and he needs my help, as always." He'd provided himself with an appropriate amount of cash, so he pulled that out and put it on the table. "Enjoy your meal, Toby, and congratulations on the wedding."

"But what about your food?"

"Take it home with you, if you like. Sorry, must dash." He hurried out of the restaurant and hailed a cab.


End file.
